


Prism

by realeyesrealize



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: (as told by dan in BIG. nothing graphic.), Coming Out, Established Relationship, Family, M/M, Queer Themes, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20180854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realeyesrealize/pseuds/realeyesrealize
Summary: Dan's story, now in colour. A few spoilers: a dark night, Jamaica's orange, the Isle of Man's turquoise and a blue box of Domino's.





	Prism

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Anushka for beta-reading.

**1\. black.**

Absence of colour. 

The night you stare at the abyss pooling at your feet. When the nothingness lures you in, traps you in its comforting arms, whispering in your ringing ears ‘Come with me. I can make it better,’ you follow. 

It’s dark. But, sweet child, you are still scared of the dark. 

The voice of fear starts to talk to you, but you ignore it. It multiplies. A cacophony of familiar voices talk to you. Not yelling like you are used to these days, nor whispering like you remember from many, many nights ago. Just talking. Too many, too loud. 

Colours are dancing behind your eyelids. You keep them closed, tight, as if that is going to make it easier, to not see, see the life surrounding you. _Your_ life. See the shades of grey and white, how the night can never fully envelop them. How there’s light even in darkness. How there’s proof that you existed everywhere. That you exist. Between these walls. Between the limits of the universe. You exist.

You carry on, despite the doubts that maybe you should stick around some more. The voices get louder. Fearful. You shut your eyes tighter, the colours dance rapidly, flashing, moving, full of life. 

Nothingness is too overwhelming, you decide. 

You vow not to tell anyone. 

**2\. brown.**

Intimidating. You keep walking. Threatening. 

‘We welcome you. You could be one of us.’ 

You feel like an exception, like an unspoken ‘unless…’

You’re closer. The details in the brick become visible. Deep breaths do nothing. Try not to show it, your mind warns. Your grandma touches your arm and you long for the days when that was comforting, when you didn’t feel like there was a wall threatening to form between you two. The days when you didn’t know. 

Inside, everything is somber. Formal. Cold. You expect them to talk about heaven and hell, about sin, about people like you. They don’t. It’s about love and acceptance and, somehow, that’s even worse. That’s not for you. An unattainable reality. 

You’re stuck. Stuck between walls, in a home that holds happy memories a lifetime away. Stuck among people who think the world would be a better place without you in it. 

The irony does not escape you. You need a divine miracle. 

**3\. hot pink.**

Skin on skin. Her weight on top of you used to be a helpful reminder. 

‘See, you like this. This could be enough. She could be enough.’ 

But, sex with her, life with her, seems sentenced to end. 

She’s in between your sheets and you wonder if it will be the last time. You try to force sadness, but maybe your indifference is answer enough. 

You touch her goodbye. Make her experience ecstasy as an unspoken thank you, a silent sorry that you will end up screaming when it ends. Sorry you weren’t enough for her, sorry she wasn’t enough for you. Sorry you’re different, sorry you don’t know what you want. 

You watch her pick her clothes up from your floor; put on the pink underwear that you loved on her. (Your mind supplies the image of that guy from the week before, putting on his boxers after he’d made you feel like never before.) She turns around and looks at you, teary-eyed. 

‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ 

**4\. red.**

The room smells fruity. You tell him. You both laugh. Squinty ocean eyes lock into yours and you can feel yourself free-falling, jumping into the unknown. No parachute, still safe.

Safe and safe and safe. 

It’s a new feeling, but you’re already addicted. You blink rapidly, staring at the neon green wall, staving off tears that have been building up for years and years and years. There’s no brown to be seen. He notices and asks, plump red lips enunciating the softest words. 

‘Are you okay?’ 

You are. Maybe life is worth it, after all. 

**5\. orange.**

Waves crash in the quietest iteration of the word. Peace undisturbed. The last sun rays caress your skin with a phantom touch. He touches you, too. Idly, exploring known territory. You could distinguish the feel of his fingertips touching you in a hundred. A million. Seven point six billion. 

In this beach, in this country, in this continent; you feel something begin to heal within you. Strong, invincible, always accompanied. You look back and rage fills your being. (He thinks rage is a step up from pain.) You look forward, too, and another life begins forming, built by words whispered in the dark, by shared dreams of a future together. Soon. 

For now, you let your skin soak up the sun. You let your hair soak up the salty water. You let yourself soak up his love, admiring the way he basks in yours. 

**6\. yellow.**

You take step after step after step without a destination. Arms moving by your sides, fists tight so that they don’t shake. Your tongue tastes the salt that has made its way to your lips. You keep walking (away.) 

You think of him, at home. Editing yet another video, deleting what people want to see the most. It makes you dizzy to think about how you’ve become the subject of a voyeuristic plot. Your brain’s visceral reaction is uncontrollable, your fear is paralysing. 

‘Please, don’t. We are not made for your eyes. Let us live, let us grow in private. Please.’ 

You beg, but no one can hear you but yourself. You’ve been doing that a lot. The familiar voices are back. 

Sunlight gets weaker with each turn of the meandering London streets. You can’t check the time. No phone. No nothing. Just a heaviness that you can’t shake. You go back to him anyway. 

**7\. green.**

The fresh smell of plants in the smoky city follows you in. 

She greets you with a handshake. You sit down and spill your guts, again. You tell her about the cloud, the one that chases you, stealing your light and feeding on it. How it’s greedy, always wants more. How you don’t have anything else to give, other than your life. How that should terrify you, but you can feel yourself slowly giving in. 

By now, your story is a script that you follow word for word, a project pitch. Deliberate examples, intentional metaphors. You show her around your darkest side with calculated moves. She sees right through your wall. Within the next hour, she tears it down firing question after question, digging deeper where it hurts the most. 

You leave with burning eyes, a new adjective for yourself, and a scheduled appointment for the next week. You buy white roses from the flower shop next door. When the florist asks, you say they’re for you. 

**8\. turquoise.**

Her embrace is tight and warm and loving, and so uniquely familiar. Her smile is his smile, and she feels like home by extension. 

His hug is lax, manlier. Rough in a way you would never associate with his son, but his eyes are kind. There was a time when you had to endure reluctant looks, born out of a generational ignorance which was not excused, but could be understood. You’re glad those days are over. For his sake, and for yours. 

The sea welcomes you with the roars of a thousand oceans. Fierce, unrelenting. The camera feels heavy in your hands as you capture its aggressive beauty. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, begging to be brought out, to take another picture and post it. Let the world know. 

Not yet. 

**9\. indigo.**

A caress of the mouse pad. A millisecond. A heartbeat. A breath you’ve been holding for as long as you can remember, now leaves you forever. The world doesn’t stop. The washing machine keeps tumbling away. The rain keeps pouring outside. His hand still finds yours. 

Your email is a re-audition to the role of son, brother, grandson. An invitation to colour in the bigger picture with the brightest colours, to fill in the unspoken blanks. You go through the mental catalogue of possible reactions with a trained indifference. You decided to do it over email for a reason. It’s not so much about them as it is about you. 

Later, your fingers wrap around the champagne glass as it meets his with a clink over the unopened box of Domino's. Here’s to the beginning of the rest of your life. Free and proud.

**10\. violet.**

The day has finally come. You stare at the camera and say it. 

"Basically, I'm gay."

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the meanings of the colours in the original pride flag by Gilbert Baker from 1978. There were 8 colours: hot pink (sexuality), red (life), orange (healing), yellow (sunlight), green (nature), turquoise (magic/art), indigo (serenity) and violet (spirit). I added black and brown to combine a newer interpretation of the pride flag. From then, it was a matter of painting with words. I hope did an okay job. (I've never been great at painting.) 
> 
> Thanks to [DryCereal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DryCereal/pseuds/DryCereal) for taking a first look at it and encouraging me to keep writing, to [winstonlives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winstonlives/pseuds/winstonlives) for being the sweetheart she is, and to Anushka for being so thorough and taking her time to polish this. <3. 
> 
> As always, feedback is encouraged! 
> 
> [Tumblr post.](https://tulipau.tumblr.com/post/186892253768/title-prism-word-count-14k-tags-suicide)


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